obin Boyd was a 16-year-old bird. And a rare bird she was. She wasn't just the Beatles' bird, or the Stones' bird. She was everyone's bird! Because she was crazy.
.--Not the talk-to-yourself-then-answer type of crazy (Robin rarely answered). Star crazy! Absolutely blithery-wild-nuts over every celebrity in the universe, especially those who rocked her deeply, all the way to her chewy chocolate center.
-- Had any of these stars known Robin was alive, the admiration society would have been mutual. For this bird wasn't the flighty sort. She never screamed or fainted (she did gasp a lot at concerts, but no one is perfect). And she was a super-hard worker, always busy running fan clubs, writing letters to various publications bawling out editors for not featuring her faves ofen enough, sneaking to the airport in the dead of night to welcome arriving favorites. That typa thing.
-- Robin was also a very pretty bird with long red hair. And blue eyes that peeped up at you (if her bangs didn't need cutting).
-- But, alas and alack, Robin's love was unrequited. In spite of her many plots and plans, and her repeated attempts to convince various body and/or security guards that she was on the staff of Rolling Stone, her efforts were always in vain.
-- The closest she had ever come to a real live star was a front- row box seat at the first and original Hollywood Bowl Beatle concert . (Boy, did she ever do a lot of gasping that night!)
-- At first, all this one-sidedness didn't bother Robin. She went right on running fan clubs, penning demands and sneaking off to the airport.
-- But, one day, she finally put her foot down. (Fortunately, her sister's toe was under it at the time, so the action served a dual purpose.)
-- "I've had it," she announced loudly, not even laughing as her sister hopped away, bellowing. "This bird is turning in her feathers!"
-- At that moment, Robin's mother entered the room to discuss a certain toe, now turning a rather attractive shade of purple. However, hearing this last remark, Mrs. Boyd gave her a nervous look instead went to the yellow pages where she began searching frantically for the number of the men in the white coats.
-- For the next couple of weeks, Robin's life was dreadful but dull. No fan clubs, letters and/or airports. Things even progressed to the dreary point where she was thinking of dismantling the Lennon shrine in her room. (Although Robin was not a partial bird, should she ever have to make a choice, John's chances were excellent.)
-- Then it happened...
-- One day when Robin was slogging wearily home from school, she spied an object glittering atop a garbage can. Looking cautiously about, she removed her glasses from her purse and put them on. (Robin was blind as six bats without her specs, but never wore them in public.) (Vanity was among the few flaws in her character.)
-- After peering more closely at the glittering object, and thinking the matter over briefly (one and one-third seconds, actually, somewhat of a record) she stole...er...rescued the tea pot.
-- When Robin walked into the house moments later, brandishing same, her mother got that look again. "What on earth is that and why?" she asked nervously.
-- "It's a tea pot. I stole...er...rescued it," Robin offered. Her mother edged toward the cabinet where the phone books lived.
-- "It was made in England," Robin further explained. (Although she was not a partial bird, should she ever have to make a choice, England's chances were excellent.)
-- Robin then placed the tea pot on her dresser and stared at it morosely, longing for the good old days when she would have been getting ready to sneak off to the airport.
-- But never again! Why should she risk getting pneumonia (not to mention grounded for the next eleven years) for some star who didn't even know she was alive!
-- "There's a place for people who sit around staring at tea pots," she muttered grimly after much vacant gazing. "Next I'll be thinking there's a magic genie in it."
-- Then she sighed thankfully. At least it would be a while before she was that far gone.
-- It was exactly three minutes (well, that's a while, isn't it?) before she lunged for the tea pot and began polishing it with her sweater.
-- "Mirror, mirror on the wall," she crooned, rubbing with vigor. She stopped. No, no, stupid. That's not what you said to awaken genies. Besides, they lived in lamps, not pots.
-- She hopefully tried "Abra-ca-dabra" and got nowhere. Then, after uttering a few more phrases including "Open Sesame" and "Shazam," she gave the pot one final swipe. "Ratzafratz," she exclaimed impatiently, this being her favorite expression. (Well, it's better than her last one: golly-gee-whiz-bang.)
-- Placing the tea pot back on her dresser with a thump, Robin glowered at herself in the mirror. "You're sick," she decided aloud.
-- "No, I'm not," said the reflection of a young man with longish dark hair. The one who was standing directly behind her, his accent crowded with distinct Liverpudlian overtones. "I'm George!"
-- Robin gasped, which was quite an innovation because she usually only did that at concerts. She was seeing things! And hearing things, too! She whirled around, expecting the mirage to fade. But it didn't. George went right on standing there, grinning at her!
-- So Robin did the only thing that seemed to make any sense in such a moment.
-- She fainted.

End of Chapter One..